Now the snow has melted and the lawns are pale green, awaiting only a few more hours of bright sunlight to come completely alive again. The trees are still bare, but this afternoon there were robins calling from their branches, speaking, no doubt, of the ways they, the first returners, can grab the best nesting spots before the crowds arrive.
Spring is the death of death and the erasure of memory. Who can ruminate over what was lost in the ice and snow when the brook runs free and clear. This is new life, again. Stop your brooding and take off your coat and hat. Clean the ashes from your hearth and open the windows and let the accumulated scents of stew and woodsmoke escape into the gold and blue.
Is there no place, no spot in the deep woods, no corner of any room, where the year’s snow, layered as it must be with every loss and defeat, remains. Where one might still remember the old and what has passed and will not come again?